Unspoken

Chapter 15

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"Sup Harreh," he greeted as we slowly entered the second Art room. The one I'd first gone into had a small walk through straight ahead into a smaller art room, and apparently this is the room I'd be drawing in.

"You alright?" Harry replied, setting his bag on the table, opposite Zayn. It was just us three on this table. The few others were sat in silence already with their coloured pencils out.

"Just start drawing, there's no teacher," Zayn directed at me. What does he mean there's no teacher? Harry reads me like a book and aids my confusion.

"We're just left to draw. At the end of the year, we just have to hand in all the work we've done and it's marked."

"But how do we know if we're doing it right? What if I draw the wrong things?" I stutter. I wanted to develop my art skills and actually get an A level, not waste a year drawing what I feel like and not be given any guidance in my work.

Mind you, drawing what I feel like with no boundaries or anyone to stop me for a whole year does sound like fun.

"There is no right or wrong. You can't draw the wrong things. Everything is right in art, because it's what you feel. If you feel like drawing a simple flower, go for it. If you feel like making a controversial masterpiece on the problems related to smoking, go for it. Do what you want. This A level is basically a free qualification. I could draw a fucking stickman but as long as I have a story and meaning behind it, it's a pass" Harry smiles.

A story? No one can understand how I feel, no one can read my emotions, so I'll sound stupid trying to translate my inner moods into words and relate them to artwork and say how it all has meaning.

My art will have no story, just a journey of my emotions that No one will be able to comprehend.

"So where you from babe? Like I've never seen you 'ere before?" Zayn questions. I'm apprehensive to answer, knowing he is linked in with Tatum's friends and that he has something to do with Indi's humiliation, but I reply anyway.

"I came from Westcliff..." I choke nervously.

Although rather attractive, Zayn is intimidating. His stubble is roughly cut and his sharp jaw lines make his appearance more jagged and frightening. The tattoos snaking up both his arms are unreadable and dark, like his eyes. Usually when you look into someone's eyes, you feel a connection; maybe a warmth or comfort, or you may even be scared by their eye contact because it's too piercing and direct, but Zayn's... Zayn's eyes are hard to decipher. I can't read what emotions they are hiding. They are cold, stoic and fearsome.

I'm uncomfortable in his presence, his all-seeing glare. I shift slightly in my seat and intertwine my fingers with themselves.

"Ah Westcliff, ain't that like the stuck-up all girls school?" He mocks, his tongue scraping carefully over his rusted red lips as a twisted grin distorts his face. Harry looks angry with him, and I'm glad he shares my frustration towards this dick of a boy, but there's something in Harry's face that shows amusement, humour.

He thought that comment was funny didn't he. But he doesn't want to show it in front of me, and so is scrunching up his fists to act like he's pissed off with Zayn for insulting me.

But he's just pretending. He actually found it hilarious.

"Yep, that's the one!" I lightheartedly retort. There's no point working myself up over such a low-life.

No more words are exchanged after that, we sat in an awkward silence. Only the scratching of their pencils fill the air.

With nothing to do and no ideas, I peek at Harry's work.